


Dirty Laundry

by Blissymbolics



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23851375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blissymbolics/pseuds/Blissymbolics
Summary: “You want me to use my mouth?” Richie asks softly.“Go for it,” Eddie replies without hesitation, clenching at the seat because god, he’s going to get blown in a parking lot and it’s the first time he’s ever gotten off in public and he’s worried that this is going to develop into a very serious fixation.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 15
Kudos: 270





	Dirty Laundry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samansucks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samansucks/gifts).



> I promised a shirt-fucking fic didn't I

Eddie likes doing laundry, which works out well because Richie doesn’t. Because Richie will cycle through every scrap of fabric in his closet before so much as looking at the washer and dryer sitting fifteen feet from his bedroom. He’ll dig out concert shirts from bands that broke up in the 90s and pairs of jeans that went out of fashion so long ago that they’re now back in style.

Richie doesn’t consciously buy most of his clothes; they just happen to find their way into his wardrobe. He collects articles of clothing like postcards or snow globes: souvenirs from one thousand standup gigs across thirty-eight state. A t-shirt from a bar in Des Moines that he got for free after an off-duty cop puked on him in the bathroom. A brick-red button up he got at a goodwill in Dallas after getting his luggage stolen. A green flannel shirt fraying and tearing at the sleeves that Richie picked out of a lost and found in a cabaret club in Baltimore during their annual winter solstice show, and those were some of his tamer stories.

Richie seems to have a personal connection with his clothes that Eddie lacks. Richie could pick out any item from his hamper and tell you exactly when, where, and how he got it, and from there he’d usually spiral into a string of wild anecdotes that would lead him to the bottom of a ditch or the roof of the White House or some shit. And Eddie, who got most of his clothes from outlet malls and stark white websites, ate his stories up.

Eddie lets out a yawn as he raises the lid of the washer and punches in the setting for colored cottons. He unscrews the detergent and pours in half a lid before dumping in the contents of the hamper, fishing out the stray socks wedged in the corners. Then he closes the lid with a metallic clunk and is about to head back out to the living room when his foot catches on something: a shirt that must have fallen out of the pile. It’s definitely one of Richie’s, but it’s comparatively plain: no prints, holes, or logos. Just a boring grey t-shirt with a toothpaste stain running down the chest. Eddie picks it up and turns to toss it in with the rest, but first, he takes a second to procrastinate and self-indulgently press it to his nose.

It smells like Richie’s shirts always smell right before they need to be washed: acidic and potent, a mix of dry sweat and deodorant; and Eddie’s pretty sure he was wearing it last night because it faintly smells like the onions he was chopping for dinner.

In summary, he wouldn’t exactly bottle the scent and pitch it around SoHo.

He’s just about to toss it in the washer, but the cycle’s already two minutes in, so he figures he might as well save it for the next load anyway. But instead of dropping it back in the hamper, he leans against the washer and fiddles with it a bit more; rubbing the seam around the collar and picking at a loose thread. Then he holds it up to the light to see all the thin patches where the fibers have chafed down to almost nothing.

And since he already sold his last bit of dignity to Richie months ago, he spits out his shame and presses the shirt to his nose again and just smells, the initial odor gradually shifting into something bearable, then familiar, then pleasant, his olfactory response evolving as his skin grows just a bit hotter.

Richie tends to be self-conscious about how much he sweats, and he’s always skeptical whenever Eddie says he likes it. Because Eddie doesn’t like anything. He doesn’t like Richie’s curtains, his choice of mayonnaise, or the way he does the dishes. But he does like his scent. He likes being smothered in it. He likes falling asleep to it. Last month they took a trip to New York and Eddie forgot his deodorant and had to use Richie’s, and Bev hugged them both over lunch and off-handedly remarked that they smelled the same, and Eddie had to sit through the rest of their meal and act like he wasn’t devastatingly hard.

He turns around so he can lean forward on his elbows against the lid of the washer, the shirt still pressed against his face, urgently aware of the fact that his dick just found something it really likes.

He holds the fabric tight against his face, over his mouth and nose, the slight barrier to his breathing slowly bringing him to the right side of dizzy. He knows that the shirt objectively smells like a middle-aged man who somehow manages to sweat more than he drinks, but Eddie’s gotten off on weirder things before, and it seems like his body has already decided that whatever’s going to happen is indeed well in progress.

He slowly pulls the fabric down, dragging it over his lower lip, a small taste barely grazing his tongue, causing the heat under his skin to swell and contract. His eyes dart to the door, listening for footsteps, wondering if Richie will hear him. If he’ll get caught if he follows through on what he’s planning.

The hallway outside the laundry room is completely quiet. Richie’s probably still on the living room couch right where Eddie left him. His heart is jackhammering against his ribs, but before he can overthink things any further, he bunches the fabric into a ball and sticks it in his mouth.

It tastes how it smells, but a more subdued version: less acrid and more salty, and it drives Eddie to press his hips flush against the washer, biting down hard as the vibrations rattle through his whole body. A strong, fast beat directly where he needs it. He thrusts against it harder, his gasps muffled by the cotton filling his mouth, absorbing his spit, and he shuts his eyes tight at the thought of coming with Richie’s shirt stuffed in his mouth like a makeshift gag.

He clenches his jaw and rubs himself harder and slower, musing on the absurdity of the whole arrangement because of course his germophobia would manifest in him fucking a goddamn washing machine.

The weird thing is that it doesn’t even feel that nice. The force of the rotations is almost violent, and the cold, hard metal through the barrier of his sweatpants feels about as pleasant as one would expect. But fuck, he’s so goddamn turned on. He knows that his hand would feel much nicer, or hell, he could walk back into the living room and ask Richie to finish him off with his mouth, but there’s something in the raw tremor that’s really doing it for him; something that’s causing the pressure between his legs to build really fucking fast.

It’s hard, and rough, and shit he’s going to come with Richie’s shirt stuffed in his mouth. He’s going to get his sweatpants wet and then he’ll have to go back into the living room and tell Richie what he did to himself and fuck, he groans and bites down tight.

Richie could walk in on him at any moment. Maybe he’ll come to check why Eddie’s taking so long. He’ll see him like this. Exactly like this. And maybe he’ll like it so much he’ll bend him over the washer and finish the job himself.

With maybe only seconds to spare, Eddie tugs the shirt out of his mouth while reaching down to untie the string of his sweatpants and pull out his dick. Wasting no time, he wraps the shirt around his cock and thrusts hard.

It’s soft. Definitely not as soft as Richie’s mouth or thighs, but the fibers are worn enough that the fabric doesn’t chafe against his skin. It's like when Richie teases him over his boxers, which always seems to get him hard faster than when Richie gets his hands on him from the get go.

He bites his lip and rubs himself firm, the head of his dick still pressing against the washer. It’s arousing in its unpleasantness. It’s too dry. Too rough. The wrong side of unsatisfying, but regardless, it only takes maybe fifteen seconds before his mouth goes wide and his eyes pinch shut, a dry string of gasps clenching in his throat. It’s good. It’s really fucking good. He presses his entire pelvis against the washer, letting the vibrations draw out the shudders running down his legs as he feels the fabric turn obscenely wet around the head of his dick.

Once it’s over, he pulls away and tries to catch his breath. A small dizzy spell darkens his vision, making him slowly sink to his knees. He breathes rhythmically and presses his forehead against the cool metal, the shirt still wrapped around his dick. Once the black spots clear from his vision, he wipes himself off and tucks himself back into his sweats. Then he pushes himself up on the balls of his feet and unfurls the shirt to inspect the damage.

Most of it’s gathered in a cluster right at the center of the chest, a place where Eddie’s come on Richie many times before. He takes a moment to admire it, weirdly proud of the mess he made. If he hadn’t just gotten off he’d be brutally turned on by the sight, and he kicks himself for leaving his phone in the living room because he could absolutely jack off to a picture of this later: the image of his come seeping into the shirt that covers Richie’s body.

Eventually he manages to shake himself out of his daze and bring the shirt over to the sink to wash it off, rubbing away the evidence and letting it disappear down the drain. Then he quickly tosses it in the washer with rest of the load, and notices that there’s still an embarrassingly long amount of time left in the cycle.

Shit, should he tell Richie about this? Of course he should. He’ll probably find it just as hot as Eddie does. Richie loves watching him jerk off. He loves playing with his come, and he gets this stupid satisfaction from making Eddie come in his pants. With all that in mind, jerking off with Richie’s dirty laundry should fit neatly in the center of that Venn diagram.

He steps out of the laundry room and walks back down the hall, curious and also slightly anxious if Richie will say anything. If he heard anything. If he’ll remark on how messed up he looks or how long he took in there. But once he makes it to the living room, he just sees Richie lying on the couch absentmindedly scrolling through his phone, the same way he left him.

“You ready?” Richie asks, placing his phone on the coffee table and scooting farther back against the couch, giving Eddie space to curl up in his normal spot.

“Yeah,” Eddie replies, too wrung out for any answer longer than a syllable. Instead he just crawls onto the couch and shifts back till he’s pressed against Richie’s chest, letting him wrap an arm around his waist. Then Richie reaches for the remote and queues up the next episode.

He wonders if Richie can smell it on him. He must be able to detect something. The gentle sweat on Eddie’s lower back, the ragged tint to his breathing, the warm tingles still twitching in his toes. But if Richie suspects anything, he gives no indication.

As the episode progresses, Eddie tries to work up the nerve to tell him. But now that he’s no longer achingly horny, he has to admit that dry humping a washing machine might not be the most embarrassing thing he’s ever done, but it’s certainly not the least.

As the minutes drag on he tries to psyche himself up, but whenever he opens his mouth all that comes out is a snarky comment about the show, or a random detail about work, or a mundane question about whether or not Richie’s paid the internet bill yet. And before long Eddie’s eyes begin to drift shut. The episode steadily loses its coherency as he fades in and out between scenes before finally drifting off entirely, his eyes burning and head heavy. He wakes up when the credits start rolling to the feel of Richie shifting behind him.

“Sorry, just gotta put the laundry in the dryer,” he whispers while stepping over Eddie’s legs. “Don’t wake up.”

Eddie’s far too comfortable to argue that the laundry is his chore, so instead he just gives an affirmative hum and closes his eyes.

-

Eddie may have miscalculated somewhat because as it turns out, Richie wears that shirt all the goddamn time.

It’s so plain that Eddie never really noticed it before, but now that he’s hyperaware of it, Richie seems to live in it.

It’s just a boring grey t-shirt, but the sleeves are loose enough around the armpits that Richie can get away with wearing it two, or maybe three times before needing to wash it again. In fact, he’s worn it three times in the last five days. Eddie knows because he’s kept a very thorough mental tally. Fortunately, they don’t really leave the house together much. They’re not big date people, and Richie’s usually still asleep by the time Eddie leaves for work, so thankfully Eddie’s only seen him wear the shirt in the comfort of their condo.

The first time was two days after the shirt’s deflowering. Eddie came home from work only to see Richie lounging on the couch and typing something on his phone, and Eddie hardly went to the trouble of loosening his tie before climbing on top of him and biting his nipples through the grey cotton.

The second time was yesterday. Richie was on a conference call with his manager and two executives from New York, so naturally for an important meeting like that he went with his default ensemble of that damn t-shirt paired with his green Baltimore cabaret flannel.

He was sitting at the dining room table chatting about venue sizes, and meanwhile Eddie was lurking in the kitchen, growing hard at the thought of those people on the screen seeing the top half of Richie’s chest. The spot where Eddie’s come was soaking through the fibers. The place where he was thrusting and rutting. The dampness of his spit and the impression of his teeth and just how fucking wet it was by the time he was finished with it.

He starts palming himself at the kitchen island, impatiently waiting for Richie to wrap things up, and as soon as Richie says his goodbyes and clicks off the camera, Eddie bolts out of hiding and crawls under the table to take him in his mouth.

Okay, he needs to tell Richie the truth soon because this is getting out of hand. But god, it’s so fucking hot. He had no idea the secrecy element would do it for him this much. But still, he recognizes that the whole operation is an unsustainable enterprise. He can’t get inexplicably horny every time Richie wears that fucking shirt. That would be torture. As he learns the very next day when Richie calls him out of his office to go grocery shopping and Eddie turns the corner only to see him waiting by the door, his shoes already tied, wearing that fucking shirt with a grey hoodie zipped up only halfway so Eddie can still see the full canvas where he left his mark.

His mouth starts watering and his cock gives a vindictive twitch, but Richie already has the keys in his hand and is telling Eddie to hurry up because it’s getting late and they don’t have anything in the fridge for dinner. Eddie almost suggests ordering take-out and fucking him against the door, but he’s worried that Richie will start to see the pattern, and some shred of benign shame is still keeping him tongue-tied. So he obediently puts on his shoes and follows Richie out to the car.

As far as he knows, this is the first time Richie’s worn the shirt in public since Eddie had his way with it, and fuck, now everyone will see it. Complete strangers will pass by them and see the exact spot where Eddie finished the job and that thought propels him through several stages of excitement as he sits in the passenger side with his legs crossed, uncharacteristically quiet, cycling through all the miscellaneous tricks he figured out in high school to try to keep himself under some measure of control.

They don’t work. Not even a little bit. They’re barely past the produce section when his body starts to grow menacingly insistent. Fortunately, he’s wearing a jacket that covers most of his crotch, but if things get any worse, there’s no outfit in the world that will hide what’s going on.

“Hey, that last E. coli outbreak’s over, right?” Richie asks.

“Hm?” Eddie hums, unbearably distracted.

“Is Daddy CDC letting us eat salad again?”

Eddie smiles to hide the fact that he has no fucking clue, even though he’s the one person in the goddamn country who should know. Hell, he set up a google alert for it. But now he can’t remember.

“Um… I don’t know.”

That was definitely the wrong answer. Now Richie looks worried.

“You okay? You seem kind of distracted.”

Shit. They can’t have this talk here. Of course they can’t. He’s pretty sure that’s illegal. But fuck, his cheeks are on fire and his pupils must look like black holes and his hands are twitching in his pockets and he’s so hard he might start doing some indecent things with the vegetables if he has to stick around here much longer.

“Yeah, I’m good. But um… I’m going to wait in the car. Just finish up without me.”

“Are you feeling sick?”

“No, I’m good, really, I’m fine.”

He’s already backing away, smiling for all he’s worth before turning on his heel and starting to make his escape. 

“Wait!” Richie calls. Eddie's only made it four steps. He freezes and anxiously looks over his shoulder.

“You’ll need the keys,” Richie says, holding them in the air, making Eddie feel like a complete dumbass.

“Right, thanks,” he says as Richie tosses them his way.

Eddie gives one last smile before speed-walking towards the exit, keeping his eyes low and coat pulled tight.

Eddie always knew there was something of an exhibitionist streak in him, but never once has he considered indulging in it. Fucking with the windows open in his fifth floor apartment was about as close to public exposure as he was willing to get. He’s never had car sex or jerked off at work. He’s never sent nude pictures or gotten blown in an alley, although he has fantasized about all those scenarios on multiple occasions.

With that being said, he’s not going to break his streak by jerking off in a Safeway parking lot.

But he could. The windows are tinted and it’s a slow night. The spaces on either side of him are empty. And considering that they only had four items in their cart by the time he bailed, Richie will probably still be in there for a while longer.

He could absolutely rub one out and get away with it easy, but instead he’s sitting here, breathing through his palm in a desperate effort to redistribute the blood sitting stagnant in his groin.

Eventually he manages to get things to quiet down. It’s actually fairly easy now that Richie’s shirt is out of his goddamn eye line. Once the worst of it subsides, he pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through Reddit, distracting himself with whatever bullshit comes across his feed, and before he knows it, half an hour has gone by and he hears Richie pulling open the trunk and loading in the groceries.

Eddie stuffs his phone back in his pocket and straightens his spine. He has to tell him. It’s now or never. If he doesn’t tell him the truth, he’ll have to make up some lie that will only worry Richie and complicate things further. No, he needs to tell him. Besides, it’s not like it’s some big secret. Richie won’t care. Of course he won’t.

Right on cue, Richie opens the driver’s side and gets inside, letting out an exaggerated exhale as he pulls the door shut and looks toward Eddie.

“So, yeah, what was that about? Did you see someone you owe money or something?”

“No, it’s not a big deal,” Eddie says, his body language laughably at odds with that statement.

Richie turns toward the windshield, raising his hands to tap out a beat on the steering wheel.

“Were you worried about getting recognized?”

Now that sends a punch of guilt right to Eddie’s solar plexus.

That hadn’t even occurred to him, but of course that’s where Richie’s mind went. They’re not publicly out yet, and probably won’t be for a while. Eddie doesn’t care. It’s all on Richie’s terms. But of course that’s what he must be thinking.

“No, I promise, it wasn’t anything serious. It’s just um…” He bites at his lip. His cheeks are burning. All the furtive embarrassment of the last few days pooling in his chest. “It’s stupid. But that shirt you’re wearing. I jerked off with it last week.”

“You did what?!” Richie exclaims, and Eddie crosses his arms tight and stares down at his feet, his face so hot it hurts.

“You heard me,” he mumbles.

"Wait, with or on?"

"With."

“Shit,” Richie sighs with a smile so wide it looks painful. “How’d you stumble across that nice little idea?”

“I was putting stuff in the wash and it was just begging to be fucked.”

Richie laughs and looks down at his chest.

“I wear this shirt like every other day.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“Shit. Do you get a kick out of seeing me wear it in public? That why you had to dash out? Were you out here making some memories?”

Eddie grits his teeth. He knew the embarrassment would be a rough pill, but he didn’t expect it to overwhelm him like this. It’s not as bad as the time his ex-girlfriend found the gay porn he left open on their shared laptop while trying to check her email, but it’s pretty high up there.

“No, I’m not that messed up yet. But it’d be great if you could start the car so we can get home and fuck immediately.”

“You think you’ll make it that long? Why wait?”

Every hair on Eddie’s body peaks up. He looks at Richie skeptically, assessing his sincerity, aggressively turned on by the offer but trying not to broadcast it.

“You serious?”

Richie shrugs. “I mean, I don’t know if we have the space for any acrobatics, but if you’re up for it, I could drive us over there where it’s darker. Give you the full prom treatment then turn back around. Thoughts?”

Richie points to the edge of the parking lot where two of the overhead lights are burnt out. It’s facing a brick warehouse with darkened windows, and there are only three empty cars sitting within maybe thirty feet.

Eddie stares at the area, a weird aura surrounding it, something ethereal and inviting. He runs the offer over in his head, making an effort to assess it logically despite the insistent twitch beneath his skin. He almost feels drunk; his inhibitions uncharacteristically low. There’s a voice in his head telling him to go for it, reminding him that what Richie’s offering is so comparatively tame. That he’s already wasted too much time and he’ll regret it if he says no.

“Sure, why the hell not,” he answers with a shrug.

Richie grins as if he were the one to just get offered a freebie. He quickly turns the key in the ignition, impatiently gripping the steering wheel as the car surges to life, then he backs out of their spot with a swerve that’s reckless even by his standards.

Eddie keeps his arms crossed as they drive the hundred odd feet to the far edge of the lot, the twinge of anxiety in the back of his skull buried under the anticipation of what’s about to happen. This is the first time he’s exchanged any favors outside the comfort of four residential walls. It’s funny how his sexual history is so boring you could read about it in a suburban lifestyle magazine, but on the plus side, it means that something as mundane as fully-clothed car sex feels novel and illicit. He feels like he’s ticking off something on his to-do list that he should have taken care of twenty years ago.

Richie puts the car in park. It’s not perfectly dark by any means, but it’s probably as private as they could hope for in this part of LA.

Richie looks at him expectantly, raising his eyebrows to ask for permission, and Eddie sighs as he unzips his coat and leans back, already noticeably hard through his jeans.

Without any further fanfare, Richie slowly reaches over and presses his palm against his crotch, causing Eddie to bite his lip and arch up into it. Then he starts moving his hand in clockwise circles, and fuck, Eddie always liked getting teased over his clothes, but he didn’t expect doing it in public to add such a rush. He could come from this. He knows he could. Just Richie pressing and rubbing, not even stroking him directly. Just the weight and the heat and the teasing dissatisfaction and the thrill of doing this in a Safeway parking lot where he can hear the metallic rattle of shopping carts not fifty feet away.

He grabs the side of the seat and pushes himself up into Richie’s hand, groaning as he tightens his grip before slackening it again, only to squeeze him harder and smile when Eddie shoots him a dirty glare.

“You want me to use my mouth?” Richie asks softly.

“Go for it,” Eddie replies without hesitation, clenching at the seat because god, he’s going to get blown in a parking lot and it’s the first time he’s ever gotten off in public and he’s worried that this is going to develop into a very serious fixation.

Richie smiles and reaches down to unzip his jeans aggressively slow. Then he proceeds to fumble around, pretending like he can’t find his dick. Eddie’s just about to ask if he needs a map when Richie wedges his hand beneath the hem of his boxers and pulls him out, and fuck, it’s colder than he expected but it doesn’t matter because next thing he knows Richie is bending down and taking him into the wet heat of his mouth, causing Eddie to hiss through his teeth as if he just touched a hot pan.

Shit, it’s good. It’s always good, but this is really striking a nerve somewhere deep. His vision goes cloudy as he watches Richie’s head bob between his legs, the weight of his tongue and lips curling around him, familiar and soft, the raw warmth defiling his spoiled nerves.

He glances up at the clock on the monitor: 8:48pm. Richie definitely hasn’t been down there for more than a minute, but Eddie can already feel it tightening and building.

“I’m close,” he pants before swallowing back a moan and pressing a hand over his mouth.

Richie hums around him, and that fucking does it. He comes so hard his whole body rocks forward with it, one hand over his mouth, the other gripping the seat, several choked sounds making it past the barrier of his palm as his body locks up and shudders with the force of it. His muscles clench and his head feels tight, then he finally lets the last of it out on a deep sigh.

He drops his moist palm from his mouth and sinks back against the leather seat, his arms tingling and eyes heavy. He looks at the clock again, just to watch the numbers switch to 8:50. Fuck, that’s pathetic.

Richie slowly lifts away, and Eddie smiles at the sight of his cock glistening with come and spit. He tucks himself back into his shorts, knowing he’ll be damp for the ride home, but that thought is a whole other tangent. Shit, he really needs to make a spreadsheet or something.

“I’m learning a lot of new things about you tonight,” Richie says while turning the ignition.

“Join the club,” Eddie replies while zipping up his jeans.

Richie gives an amused hum before looking over his shoulder and starting to back out.

“So next time you feel like doing some Oval Office roleplay, am I allowed to watch? Or is the secrecy the thing that gets you going?

“I think I could swing you a ticket. I’m still workshopping this.”

“Either way, we’ll have to ration it. ‘Cause I only have so many shirts, and I don’t know if I can ever wear this one again without getting fined for public indecency.”

Richie drives them towards the exit, stopping behind a large BMW that’s waiting for the light to change.

“This could be our designated come shirt,” Richie says, tugging on the fabric for emphasis.

“Jesus Christ.”

“No seriously, I’ll only wear it around the house and you can fleshlight it whenever you like.”

Eddie buries his face in his hand, dwelling on the nightmare he just unleashed.


End file.
